


Escapes

by BlossomsintheMist



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Abuse, Character Study, Delirium, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Fictional Religion & Theology, Gen, Imprisonment, Religion, Solitary Confinement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-13
Updated: 2015-01-13
Packaged: 2018-03-07 09:00:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 870
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3169100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlossomsintheMist/pseuds/BlossomsintheMist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The punishments for running away in the Fereldan Circle were comparatively gentle--penitence, solitary confinement . . . .  A teenaged Anders thinks, in the midst of being punished for running away.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Escapes

**Author's Note:**

> This deals with Anders in the Tower, and it’s not particularly graphic or disturbing, but it’s not very nice, either. It definitely deals with being locked up, and punishments for running away. Psychological abuse and imprisonment.

He has pale, fair Anderfels skin that freckles easily, and burns in the sun, and shows every flush of warmth beneath his skin far too easily for grace, whether in exertion or embarrassment or emotion.  His skin gets splotchy when he’s angry and flushes with heat he can feel like a fever whenever he’s warm or hot under the collar or feeling really much of anything at all.

It shows bruises easily, too, marks, scratches rubbed raw.  There’s a deep bruise just under his knee, and Anders finds himself staring at it, at the darkness and violet smudging and the places he can see blood vessels have burst.  He can feel the tenderness in his muscles, in the joint, a sort of dull, throbbing ache, so the bruise must go deep.  He can see little shivers, trails of gooseflesh, raise over his naked skin as he sits there and watches, along the flesh of his belly, heaving with quick, too rapid breaths, down along his arms.  But he can still feel the flush over his cheeks, high and hot, spreading down over his chest.  He leans his head against the cool stone and closes his eyes.

His hair is tangled, loose around his face; it falls into his eyes and sticks to the back of his neck with heat, with cold sweat.  He wishes he could wash his face, wipe the sweat off the back of his neck and under his arms, at least.

When he closes his eyes he can imagine he is elsewhere, lying in the grass, the scent of it green and rich and growing in his nose, the sweet scent of flowers under the sun weaving through it, wind teasing along his face, can imagine he is taking the longest bath imaginable, sinking into a vast, richly appointed tub with water so hot his skin turns bright red in moments, scented with exotic northern oils, can imagine arms around him, a warm mouth comforting on his neck, at his ear, the scratch of a familiar beard and a soothing hand up and down his back.

They bark at him to open his eyes, splash him with water that strikes him like a blow to the gut with its chill, cutting deep into his skin, and he jerks upward, shivering, the water trembling like diamonds on his chill, shaking flesh.  He calls them a stupid name, and one of them hits him across the face; he can feel the heat of the bruise rising and knows it will leave a nasty mark, can already feel it. The ropes they’d tied him in to bring him here rubbed his skin raw, and the water irritates healing scabs into an itch; he shifts his wrists uncomfortably, rubs at them, though it doesn’t help.  The tight, twisting ache that lingers in his arms is almost unbearable.

Just a few days of penitence, the Knight-Commander had said, but since Anders isn’t penitent in the least, he expects it will take longer.  He leans his head against the cold stone and imagines the sky.  His cheeks feel hot and flushed, but he can’t stop shivering.

There was a haystack in one of the villages on the other side of the lake where a mother cat had carved out a warm nest for her kittens, the last time he’d run away.  He imagines lying in the hay, stroking them gently, soft fur under his fingers and mews in his ears, the fragile trembling warmth of new life, scratchy tongues and fuzzy ears.  He remembers kissing a girl behind a tavern in Redcliffe, his hands tangling up in her dress as she breathed warm, tingly breath over his lips and her hands were hot at his back, tangled in his hair as she teased him about its length, called him a pretty one for a lad, asked him about his earring with eager curiosity in her voice.  He thinks about Karl’s hands in his hair, the older mage’s soft breath on the back of his neck, the odd warm look in his eyes when they play chess or read together.

His head swims.  They drag him up, push him onto his knees so that the bruises ache and twinge and tell him to repeat the Chant, and he can’t remember the words in places except when he stops trying to think about it.  But he refuses not to think about it; he won’t simply say whatever they want him to, won’t repeat the words by rote like he’s reciting them to his father.

Three more days, then, for stumbling in the middle of Transfigurations.  Anders isn’t surprised, but the bitter anger, hurting and low, that builds in him leaves him flushed and trembling.

Anders kicks out his legs and studies his bruises, the fevered heat of his skin.  He has new freckles from the sun, this time.  At least they’re something to show for his trouble.

He imagines sailing away, on a ship bound for some exotic land, far from here, the sun in his eyes and the wind and salt air on his face, as he flops back against the stone.

Maybe next time.  Maybe next time he’ll even manage to get tan.


End file.
